


humpday funday

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Sleepovers, also let's be real most of this is shameless domestic fluff, it seems my modern AU bellarke obsession isn't going away anytime soon, though the enemies stage is really more implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:23:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sorry to pull this so late, but d’you think I could crash at yours tonight? Wednesdays are usually busier to begin with, but something about tonight is apparently screaming at everyone within a five-block radius to get their hump day happy hour on. I'm seriously doubting my ability to make it all the way back to my apartment by the time the night’s through.”</p><p>“Did you just call it ‘hump day’?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	humpday funday

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of my absolute favourite fics are based on clarke regularly staying over at bellamy's. hope y'all enjoy my attempt to make up for the imbalance in ~friendly~ sleepover fics!

Bellamy’s surprised to see her enter the bar. Sundays are usually dinner date nights for the girls, and sometimes they’ll stop by on their way home for a quick nightcap. But Clarke’s alone this time, shrugging off her coat and hopping up on the barstool in front of him like she belongs there. He cocks an eyebrow at her, pencil still poised over the inventory ledger he had been going over.

 

“Where’s Bubbles and Buttercup?”

 

She levels him with a flat look. “Ha, ha.”

 

He grins impertinently. “It was either that or a _Charlie’s Angels_ reference.”

 

“Good to know you went with the cartoon kindergarteners option.” She rests her elbows on the bar, propping her chin up in one hand. “Your sister’s probably still in a coma from breaking camp this morning, she didn’t come out tonight. Raven has a department presentation tomorrow morning, so she needs to get to bed early if she wants to wake up at six A.M. to freak out for at _least_ a couple hours.”

 

He stows the ledger back in its place behind the cash register, and starts pulling bottles to fix her a gin and tonic. “Ah, so the princess is flying solo for the rest of the night.”

 

“Excuse you, we can’t all be superstar bartenders and get paid to hang out in halfway-cool drinking establishments all night long,” she retorts, tossing her blonde waves over one shoulder exaggeratedly.

 

“At least you get to _leave_ when you want,” Bellamy grumbles, popping in an extra lime before setting her finished drink on the bar. “Sundays are apparently scheduled for all the loners who never manage to do anything halfway interesting over the weekend to come in and feel bad about themselves and their life choices and only decide to leave after the fourth time they’re told the bar’s closing.”

 

“Oh, but you’re so _good_ at telling people the bar’s closing!” she enthuses brightly, the thin straw caught between bared teeth. Her wide grin quickly turns into a laugh at the death glare he attempts to send her way. “Well, you never seem to have any complaints about having to eject drunken losers on any _other_ nights.”

 

He heaves a longsuffering sigh as he fills a glass with cold water. “Yeah, it’s just… I don’t know, it just feels like Sundays are really out to get me or something. Not to mention my _only_ morning class of the week just _happens_ to be, surprise, surprise, Mondays. Eight-fucking-thirty A.M.” He shakes his head before taking a couple shallow gulps of the cool water, relishing in the bracing effect it has going down. He sets the glass down on the counter in front of him, suddenly noticing the pensive look she’s levelling his way. “Something on my face, princess?”

 

She rolls her eyes, flicking a few drops of the condensation on her glass at him. “Your precious face is fine. Actually, I was just thinking — you _could_ just crash at my place if you wanted.”

 

Pausing midway through cracking a couple beer bottles open to stare at her in a few long seconds of genuine shock, he suddenly remembers himself and opens the second beer before handing both bottles off to the guys a few spaces down, tucking the bottle opener in his back pocket. He turns back to find her toying with her straw as she aimlessly scrolls through something on her phone.

 

He clears his throat, trying to tread carefully. While their relationship is far from new, the absence of their debilitating tendency to communicate only by the heat of verbal battle certainly still feels so. After all, _don’t fuck shit up at your workplace_ is generally a good life rule to abide by _._ “Honestly, princess, I have no idea if you’re kidding right now.”

 

The look she gives him puts his attempted death glare to serious shame. “Why the hell would I kid about that?” At his very carefully blank expression, she rolls her eyes again. “My place _is_ closer to here _and_ your university than yours is. You’d be able to clock in a few extra minutes of sleep, and get to your bitch of a morning class a lot happier than I’m guessing you currently do. Not really much for you to lose here, is there?” She sips at her drink calmly.

 

 _Holy shit._ He looks at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say she was only joking — waiting for the catch. She’s looking right back at him expectantly.

 

“You’re serious.” It’s not a question.

 

“I am.”

 

Another ten seconds passes by. He vaguely registers Liam Gallagher’s earnest crooning over the bar’s modest speakers, _in a champagne supernova in the sky_.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?” she drags out the word deliberately, a slight smirk noticeable over the rim of the near-empty glass.

 

He doesn’t try to resist the smile that breaks out on his face at her clear amusement. “Thanks for the offer, princess, you’re my saviour, I owe you one. _Okay?_ ”

 

She laughs readily at his poor excuse for a deadpan, setting her empty glass down on the bar and hopping up from her seat. “We’ll call it even this time,” she says easily, tapping the glass knowingly. “Text me when you’re done.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**You were right.**

**usually the case, blake. gonna**

**need you to be more specific.**

**… Can I please crash again**

**next week, Your Highness?**

**yes. but only because the coffee**

**you left was fucking amazing**

**what the hell did**

**you put in there**

**Crack.**

**seriously, i didn’t even KNOW my**

**own coffeemaker was even capable**

**of producing a substance so magical**

**I’ve been told I have magic hands.**

**More than a few times.**

**By more than a few people.**

**stop.**

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, princess, it’s Bellamy.”

 

“Oh, Bellamy, thank God, would never have guessed otherwise. Should really get caller ID on them new-age smartphones, eh?”

 

“… You done?”

 

“Yes. What’s up?”

 

“Sorry to pull this so late, but d’you think I could crash at yours tonight? Wednesdays are usually busier to begin with, but something about tonight is apparently screaming at everyone within a five-block radius to get their hump day happy hour on. I'm seriously doubting my ability to make it all the way back to my apartment by the time the night’s through.”

 

“Did you just call it ‘hump day’?”

 

“All that and _that’s_ what you got?”

 

“Kind of hard to ignore, coming from you.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Never mind. Come over whenever you’re done. Text first, alright?”

 

“Got it. Thanks, princess. See you in a few hours.”

 

“Okay. Oh, and, Bellamy?”

 

“What?”

 

“Happy hump day.”

 

“… I’m hanging up now.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clarke nudges a very irate, very distracted Raven out of the way so she can set fresh beer bottles down on the table. It’s game night, and Octavia can generally be counted on to come up with relatively safe, family-friendly options to prevent things from getting out of hand. The strategy’s not completely failsafe, but it’s probably their best bet — a collective shudder still runs throughout the group anytime the Game of Life debacle of November 2013 is mentioned. For all the teasing inflicted on Clarke and Bellamy for their constant antagonisation and deliberate aggravation of each other, the rest of the group could easily top them any day. The scuffle that had broken out between Raven and Jasper on Twister night had almost resulted in a trip to the ER (“You did that on _purpose_ —” “Oh get _over_ it, Jordan, I wasn’t _actually_ going to _break_ anything!”).

 

Tonight, Octavia’s broken out the UNO deck, and it’s a good choice. Minimal physical interaction required, straightforward enough rules that drastically decrease the chances of a heated debate escalating out of proportion. All in all, save for Jasper’s repeated accusations of Raven inciting a Reyes-Murphy-Miller alliance against him, the coast has definitely been clear of severe bodily harm.

 

Clarke settles back down at her coffee table in between a wildly gesticulating Raven and a contradictorily sedate Lincoln, complete with a boneless Octavia draped across his other side. The group seems content to play spectator to the latest Jordan-Reyes quarrel, Murphy egging both sides on with twice the usual amount of snarky and Monty helpfully pointing out that Raven _has_ been covertly whispering with Murphy and Miller all night over their corner of the table. Octavia occasionally tosses in a supportive “This is _bullshit_ ” in between handfuls of M&Ms from the bowl she’d pulled to her in an attempt to shield it from the very long, very expressive limbs of an agitated Jasper Jordan.

 

Over the chaos of the escalating argument (“You’re telling me you just _happened_ to have _three_ Draw Four’s in a _row_?!” “ _How_ can I be attacking you, _when I’m not even sitting beside you_ —“) Clarke takes a long swig of her fresh beer, and just as she’s pulling the bottle away from her lips, her eyes meet Bellamy’s across the table. He’s got an exasperated expression on his face, but it’s betrayed by the slanted, upward curve of the left side of his mouth. She knows that look. She’s probably wearing the exact same look right now.

 

Their smiles widen, and she’s abruptly jolted out of the eye contact when Raven drags her into the ring to testify to her innocence with no warning.

 

 

 

One hour later, Murphy crows over his landslide victory in the living room while Monty helps her clean up in the kitchen.

 

“In all fairness, it was a pretty brilliant strategy, using Raven to carry his attacks along,” Monty comments as he secures a half-full bag of chips with an airtight clip before handing it off to Clarke to put away.

 

“Yeah, but was it really worth it for everyone else to have to sit through the whole _Full House_ drama,” Clarke grumbles, but it’s missing the telltale traces of any real sourness.

 

Monty laughs. “Would we really have it any other way?” He grins cheerily at her expression before a very loud, very slurred “ _Where the FUCK is my roommate Monty Green MONTY GREEN DID YOU LEAVE ME_ ” sounds from the living room. It’s Clarke’s turn to laugh as the clearly pained subject of the drunken announcement grimaces. “And that’s probably a wrap on the night. I’d better make sure he’s ready to go.”

 

No sooner has the engineer left than Bellamy is striding in, empty beer bottles wedged in the spaces between his fingers. “This is the last of them. At least, I think so,” he says, setting them on the kitchen table beside the few she’d gathered up on her way in.

 

She looks up from the counter where she’s pouring the remaining M&Ms into a food container. “Great, thanks. I’ll take them down to recycle tomorrow or something.”

 

“Nah, I’ll bring ’em down on my way out,” Bellamy dismisses, already shaking out a spare garbage bag from the cupboard under her sink. “Knowing your Sunday habits, princess, they’ll probably still be sitting here when I get here after work tomorrow.”

 

She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him before turning to set the container in the fridge. “Oh, which reminds me.”

 

He looks up from his task of filling the bag with the empty bottles. She’s standing along the adjacent side of the table, one hand propped on it as the other digs in her back pocket. A look of triumph crosses her face, and she pulls her hand up in front of her. He looks at her, at the object in her hand, and back at her.

 

“… It’s a key.”

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” she returns dryly. At his raised brow, she huffs an exasperated sigh and sets the key down on the island in front of him. “Do you have any idea what kind of _sick torture_ it is to be _drowning softly_  in warm fluffy cotton comfort, _slowly_ and _blissfully_ , and then all of a sudden being made to _stand up_ —”

 

“Okay, okay, got it.” He reaches for the key with one hand and digs in his jeans pocket with the other, drawing out a key ring with a couple keys and a leather Harley Davidson keychain already dangling from it. He makes a show of adding the proffered key to the combination, and holds the small bunch of keys up, jangling them slightly for her inspection. “There, princess. You and your warm fluffy cotton can hold on to each other, alright?”

 

“Warm fluffy cotton _comfort_ ,” she corrects, eyes narrowing as a finger jabs him in the chest. He grins at her obvious attempt to keep from showing her own amusement, and he’s suddenly struck by how familiar this feels — just like all the fights they’ve had before, only he never got to see _that_ half-smile on her face before. Not in the middle of an argument, at least. “And you know what? We _will_.”

 

He laughs as she skirts around him and flounces out of the kitchen with a flourish.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Hey, have you noticed anything about Bell and Clarke lately?”

 

Raven looks over from where she’s inspecting her reflection in the mirror. “What do you mean?”

 

Octavia props herself up on an elbow so she can look her friend in the eye. “Do you feel like they’ve — I don’t know — _changed_ or something?”

 

“Why, do _you_?” Raven asks as she deftly unscrews a tube of mascara.

 

The younger girl flops onto her back restlessly. “I don’t know. Something feels funny. Like, at brunch today, I left them to go to the bathroom and when I got back to the table, I swear I heard Clarke telling my brother to, and I quote, _‘bring your own fucking cereal if you fucking hate muesli that fucking much’_.”

 

There’s a brief silence as Raven processes the information, their pointed glances meeting in the mirror.

 

“What did he say?”

 

Octavia shrugs. “I got to the table, and they just kept going from where we’d left off like nothing had happened.”

 

Raven dabs a finger over a freshly applied coat of lipstick. “Maybe they were talking about game night. You know how Bellamy gets about the snacks sometimes. They _did_ spend most of Risk night fighting about how all Clarke had in her apartment was ‘rabbit food’, remember that?”

 

The younger Blake frowns, considering the possibility. “I think the exact phrase used was ‘rodent food’. And anyway, since when has any of us had _muesli_ on game night?”

 

Raven turns away from the mirror, satisfied with her appearance for the night. “Since when has it _not_ been weird with those two, man. Their vibe’s never been anywhere _near_ normal.” She pauses, hands on her hips, then snorts. “Come to think of it, since when has it not been weird with any of _us_.”

 

At that very moment, one of their subjects of discussion bursts into the room, pale skin still glowing pink from the shower.

 

“I’m _so_ sorry, guys, just give me like ten more minutes to—”

 

“Outfit. Bed.” Octavia points to where she’s already laid out a selection of clothes for the harried blonde attempting to wrestle on a pair of panties under the large towel wrapped around her. Clarke sighs in relief and seizes the strapless bra lying on top of a black off-shoulder top as her friends move towards her bedroom door.

 

“Fucking _angels_ , the both of you!” she calls over Raven’s laughing reply that they’ll wait in her living room.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Miller starts a little as his best friend’s phone vibrates violently on the couch. He glances over out of habit, squinting slightly at the text alert from “Princess”. The preview of the message immediately has him leaning in for a closer look.

 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect the other kids’ privacy,” Murphy drawls from where he’s sprawled out over the armchair, eyes never leaving the television screen.

 

“Whose privacy we talkin’ about?” Bellamy asks as he collapses back onto the couch beside Miller, who raises one dark brow.

 

“Um, why did Clarke just send you the link to what looks like a _New York Times_ article?”

 

Bellamy frowns, and picks up his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Miller notices that even Murphy has wrenched his gaze away from the television. The two watch as Bellamy scrolls and taps a couple times on his phone, the screen lighting up the faint half-smile on his face. “S’nothing. Just the princess having to prove her point. As usual.” He clicks the display off and settles back into his seat, attention now diverted back to the television. A few seconds pass before he notices that the other two pairs of eyes in the room are still trained on him. “What?”

 

Miller exchanges a glance with Murphy, who’s completely shifted his, now angled toward them on the couch. “ _Well_? What’s the article about?”

 

Bellamy stares at the two, a little incredulously. “Seriously?”

 

“Yeah, _Bellamy,_ what’s the article about?” Murphy echoes deliberately, a roguish grin slowly breaking out on his sharp face.

 

Bellamy looks between the two, wary of the sudden display of attentiveness. He slowly reaches for his phone, unlocks the display and turns the screen to show them. They lean forward eagerly.

 

“ _‘Do I Have To, Mom?’ The Truth About Brushing Your Teeth_ ,” Miller reads aloud, brows drawing together in confusion. “Um.”

 

Murphy clears his throat, maneuvering his lank frame into a more upright position. “Why is Clarke sending you an article about… oral hygiene.”

 

Bellamy shrugs as he clicks the display off for a second time. “The other day she found out I sometimes skip the whole tooth-brushing thing a couple nights a week, and she flipped. Started going off about how I was going to lose all my teeth within thirty years.”

 

Miller gapes slightly. “You have conversations about everyday _dental care_ routines. With _Clarke_?”

 

“You have everyday conversations with _Clarke_?” Murphy demands, leaning forward sharply.

 

Bellamy gives them a look that clearly says _okay you’re both clearly potentially psychologically disturbed_. “It’s the first time the subject’s come up, actually. Why?”

 

They continue to stare at him, mouths slightly open.

 

“If you guys are gonna just keep doing that, I’m just gonna leave now and be three hours early for my shift.”

 

Two sets of jaws snap shut.

 

 

Eight hours later, he’s nudging the apartment door closed with an elbow. “You’re earlier than usual,” she comments as he slides the deadbolt in.

 

“Slow night,” he calls back, toeing his shoes off heavily. “Not so much slow as _dead_ , actually. Convinced Shumway an early closing was in order.”

 

She snorts as he drops down onto the couch next to her blanket-swaddled form and starts rummaging through his bag. “You could probably convince Shumway to just _give_ you the place if you wanted. Not the brightest bulb in the shed, poor guy.” He briefly notices the way the topmost book on the small, neat stack he’d left on her coffee table the night before is lying slightly askance. She likes to riffle through his texts and journals, even if she’s not as well informed on the Byzantine Empire as he is. Whenever she does it in his presence, she makes a point of reading random phrases and sentences aloud in a deep, snobby British accent — which, he would never admit to her face, is actually pretty good.

 

“Which is why I’m here right now instead of being forced to meditate on all my questionable life choices behind a very empty bar, so I’m not about to make any complaints.” He gathers up a bundle of shower necessities and stands, stretching as hard as he can and groaning in satisfaction when a couple cracks run down his back. “Gonna take a shower.”

 

“Go ahead,” she answers innocuously in between sips of hot tea, eyes fixed on the _Everybody Loves Raymond_ rerun. “I’ll just _brush_ my _teeth_ when you’re done.” She grins impishly at his exasperated expression.

 

“Cute.” He ambles into her bathroom, yawning loudly as he shuts the door behind him.

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, she reaches for her toothbrush and pauses, blinking hazily at the new neighbour sharing its yellow plastic cup of a home. She regards the blue toothbrush with a small smile for a few seconds, before shaking her head and grabbing her own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Krumbacher, Krumbacher… Fuck, where the hell are you._

Bellamy roughly tosses a couple books aside, huffing impatiently as the one text he’s searching for continues to elude him. Fuck it, he _could_ just manage with Luttwak’s book, but—

 

 _Shit. Krumbacher’s with Clarke._ He groans out loud, raking a hand through his already thoroughly rumpled mop of curls. He shoves his laptop into his backpack and swings it over one shoulder, snatching up his phone and flicking the hall light off as he stalks out of his apartment without a backward glance.

 

 

 

Four hours later, his hands abandon his laptop keyboard to stretch high up into the air as a deep yawn escapes him. He reaches over his overheated laptop for the half-empty glass of water on the coffee table, wincing slightly at the ache of protest that runs through his back.

 

Clarke lifts her head from where it’s propped on the opposite end of the couch, blinking sleepily. “Paper done?”

 

He swallows a mouthful of water, sighing slightly at the cool refreshment. “Just about. Go to bed, princess, you’re exhausted.”

 

“Why’d you need Krumbacher so badly?” she asks, dragging her limp body up only to fall gently back against the couch, feet drawing out from where they’d been wedged under his thigh. “Couldn’t the other boring old farts do it for you this time?”

 

He chuckles softly at the way her hair has pretty much all but escaped from the loose braid she’d had it in, falling into blue eyes protected by heavily fluttering lids. “Tell you tomorrow, princess. Come on, bedtime. I’m not carrying you again, I don’t think my back can take it tonight.”

 

“Boring old fart,” she teases before barely managing to stifle a pretty impressive yawn. She pushes herself off the couch slowly, leaving her cocoon of blankets in a twisted heap on the couch. “Turn off the TV when you’re done,” she manages through a second yawn, stumbling blindly towards her bedroom.

 

 

 

Five days later, he sends her a screenshot of a bold A+.

 

He walks through her door that night and is instantly greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of cheesy pizza, with “proper plates and everything for the future Boring Old Fart, Ph.D.,” she declares with a grin as she hands him a large glass of wine.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’s just about done scraping the bottom of his cereal bowl when Clarke drags herself into the kitchen, sporting a serious case of bed head, with her oversized sleeping shirt all askew. He grins around his last spoonful of now soggy cereal at the way her eyes are all scrunched up in protest at the sunlight streaming in through the window. “Morning, princess. Ready to take on the day?” His grin stretches even wider at the narrowed glare she shoots him. The sight of her in full on, I-am- _not_ -a-morning-person grump mode never failed to deeply and thoroughly amuse him, a phenomenon she had morning-grumped about several times before.

 

She pads slowly but determinedly over to the coffeemaker. “How many times. Inside voice, Blake.” Her voice is even lower than usual, tinged with the hoarseness that accompanies hours of deep sleep.

 

He shakes his head affectionately as he rises from the table to rinse off his bowl in the sink. “Well as long as you’re not yet awake enough for full sentences, I think I’m safe. Popped in a little something extra for you today, princess.” He glances over as the scent of cinnamon wafts over from where she’s pouring hot coffee into a mug, catching the way her mouth falls open and her entire expression melts in welcome relief at the mouthwatering aroma. She doesn’t even wait to add her usual dose of cream and sugar before lifting the mug to her lips for a quick, careful taste, actually _moaning_ at the comforting warmth.

 

“Now I know why I let you hang round here,” she says, eyes still closed as she savours the spiced, bitter aftertaste the brew left.

 

Bellamy chuckles as he reaches for a dishtowel to dry his hands on. “Yeah, where else would you get your daily dose of cinnamon caffeine goodness?” She’s retrieving the cream and sugar, half-grunting a little, in assent or dissent — probably both. He smiles. _Okay, maybe not quite at full sentences yet._

 

Replacing the dishtowel on its bar, he turns to her, one arm circling round her back as he ducks down for a quick kiss and releases her, picking up his bag and jacket on his way to the front door. “See you tonight or something, princess,” he calls out as he’s shuffling into his shoes, and registers a faint, muffled response as he pulls open the door and shoulders his way out of her apartment.

 

Twenty minutes later, he’s striding into the small lecture hall with a couple minutes to spare, murmuring quiet greetings to a few classmates and wasting no time in folding himself into a seat and extracting his laptop from his bag. He’s just in the process of downloading the lecture outline for the day when his fingers freeze up over his keyboard.

 

_I just kissed Clarke._

 

_No._

_I just kissed Clarke **goodbye.**_

He’s vaguely aware that his pupils are dilated, and every muscle in his body is at full attention.

 

_… What the **fuck** was that?! _

 

He’s abruptly jolted out of the beginnings of a panic as his professor strides into the hall, deep voice already booming with a brisk greeting to the class. Bellamy shakes his head quickly, taking a deep, bracing breath as he forces his attention towards the lecture.

 

 

 

It’s only on the bus home that he realises his watch is missing from his wrist.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy pauses to rub at the back of his neck, sighing at the momentary reprieve from hours of pent-up strain and tension in the area. It’s been two days since he’s last seen Clarke — _last **kissed** her, _his brain hisses at him, and he groans as the strain and tension steadily floods back into his neck and shoulders. He hasn’t called her, nor she him. She hasn’t texted him, nor him her.

 

All in all, it has _not_ been a good fucking week thus far.

 

He nods at the group calling for a fresh round of beers and starts popping bottles open, allowing himself to wonder what he’s going to do tonight. It’s been a long while since he’s felt the need to check if Clarke’s okay with him staying over, especially not on the usual Sunday or Wednesday nights. Hell, a few weeks ago he’d walked in late on a Thursday night, one hand toting a bag from the 24-hour Chinese place in between the bar and her place, and she’d taken it in stride so smoothly, it almost felt like she’d been the one to call him to come over in the first place.

 

He shakes his head as Atom calls his name from the other end of the bar, the annoyed expression on his face a clear indication that he’d been trying to get Bellamy’s attention for a while now. He nods a silent apology at his co-worker and forces himself to return his focus to the buzz of the crowded bar. After all, he can decide what to do later.

 

 

 

Four hours later, he crawls into his own bed and lies stiffly on his back, blinking at how fucking _strange_ it feels, not being able to snuggle into a worn old couch.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Where the hell is your watch.”

 

He stabs vaguely at his scrambled eggs, doing his best to avoid eye contact. “Hm?”

 

Octavia grips his left wrist firmly, dragging it to the centre of the table. “Your watch. Where is it?”

 

“Oh.” He pulls out of her grasp, reaching for his coffee cup before she can latch on to his arm again. “Well. Er.”

 

Her sharp green eyes fix on his deliberately averted ones, narrowing suspiciously. “ _Please_ tell me you haven’t lost it.”

 

He briefly debates with himself on which the safer option is — his annoyingly persistent little sister finding out the truth now, or later.

 

“You _better_ not have _lost_ it,” she starts heatedly, fork glinting from where it’s clutched in one emphatically gesturing hand. “Because that was a _very_ fucking _expensive_ birthday presen—”

 

“It’s at Clarke’s,” he mumbles into his cup, still held protectively in front of his face.

 

“What did you say?”

 

He clears his throat slightly. “It’s at Clarke’s.”

 

He doesn’t have to look at his sister; he can _hear_ the frown in her voice. “But the last game night was two weeks ago. You had the watch when I saw you Sunday.”

 

Bellamy sighs, lowering the cup. _Here we go._ “I left my watch at Clarke’s when I slept over, alright?”

 

He prods at his bacon forlornly, awaiting the onslaught of questions. He glances up, frowning when no such barrage begins.

 

His sister has a really, _really_ disconcerting look on her face. His frown deepens when he recognises it as the look she gets when she hears something that she’ll later say she had somehow inexplicably known all the time despite never having said so — like when Beyoncé ripped open her blazer to reveal her pregnant belly on the VMA’s, or when Frank Ocean came out.

 

“… O?”

 

“How long?”

 

“What?”

 

“How long have you been sleeping with her?”

 

Bellamy stares at her, slack-jawed. The matter-of-fact tone echoes even after she’s finished speaking, thanks to her impressively arched brow. His mouth snaps shut when he suddenly realises she’s still waiting for a response.

 

“I’m… _not_.”

 

She huffs exasperatedly, pushing her long bangs out of her face impatiently. “Don’t _lie_ to me, big brother.”

 

He stares at her, meeting her gaze dead-on. “I’m _not_.”

 

She studies him for a few seconds, clear green orbs darting quickly between his dark ones. “You’re not.”

 

“ _No_. Jesus. We’re not—” he shifts nervously. Why is he _nervous_? “I just crash sometimes. Couple times a week. Usually Sundays and Wednesdays.”  _And others,_ he wisely refrains from adding. 

 

There’s a few more moments of agonising silence, the distant noise of other diners drifting in and out of their booth.

 

“Why _Clarke’s_?” she finally asks, brows furrowing together.

 

He relaxes his drawn shoulders, relieved that she hadn’t pressed on with her previous line of questioning. “It’s easier,” he replies offhandedly, shrugging slightly. “Closer to campus. Better.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Also I kissed her.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

He drops his fork, unable to suppress the sudden burst of agitation that floods his entire body. “I don’t _know_ , I didn’t _know_ I was doing it, she just woke up and came into the kitchen and she was all sleepy and grumpy and ah fuck she fucking _hates_ mornings so I put the damn cinnamon in her damn coffee and _I don’t fucking know_ it was like an automatic impulse reaction thing and I didn’t even _realise_ till I got to class, _okay_?” He sucks in a sharp breath, casting slightly wild eyes about in sudden panic that everyone in the diner had heard him. No one seems to spare them even a passing glance.

 

His gaze returns to Octavia, and she’s still wearing that self-indulgent look, only it’s accompanied by a wide smile.

 

“Dude,” she starts, leaning forward to prop her elbows against the edge of the table, “you have _got_ to be the biggest loser. Of _life_.”

 

He presses his lips together, glaring at her flatly. “Very helpful. Thanks, O.”

 

She laughs merrily, and he can’t help but feel slightly offended. “Jesus, Bell. Exactly how long has this whole sleeping over thing been going on?”

 

He wrinkles his nose, trying to remember details that _really_ shouldn’t feel decades old to him. “A couple… no, wait. A few months. Four. Five?” His frown deepens. _Shit. Has it been five months?_ _  
_

 

She’s smiling at him again, eyes sparkling cheerily. Once again, he’s struck by just how much she resembles their mother _._ “Let me guess. You _kissed_ her Monday morning, forgot the watch, and _didn’t_ sleep over last night.”

 

His brows draw together. It’s no surprise that his impressively perceptive sister knows him inside and out, but it’s still fucking _unsettling_ sometimes. “Okay, maybe we should just drop this.”

 

“Did it feel weird?”

 

He frowns, fingers pausing their nervous drumming on the table surface. “Did what feel weird? Kissing her?”

 

She rolls her eyes, still smiling _that_ smile. “No, dumbass. Not staying at hers last night.” She pauses, considering the question. “Actually, that too — but this first.”

 

He plays with his fork uneasily, sub-consciously noting that his fingernails are just about due for a trim. “I don’t know about _weird_. But, uh, I guess it felt… off. Or something.” His eyes snap to hers alertly. “Why?”

 

She shakes her head slightly, bright eyes not leaving his. “Answer the other one first.”

 

He slumps in his seat, arm dropping off the table to sag onto the booth bench beside him. What _had_ kissing Clarke felt like? It had happened so fast, so — he refuses to think _naturally_ — so unthinkingly that he hadn’t really thought to recall what the moment itself had been like.

 

A few words surface in the chaos of his thoughts: _warm_ , _familiar_ , _normal_. None seem to fit as completely as he wanted his answer to. They were words people used to describe a place one called home. Somehow, they didn’t seem quite enough for Clarke. Not that they weren’t accurate; they just weren’t _enough_.

 

And just like that, understanding dawns on him. It feels as though he’d been walking around for years with the curtains drawn over his eyes, and someone had suddenly stepped in and threw them wide open, and now all he can do is blink at the unexpected change in his vision, adjust to the light flooding in.

 

He lifts his gaze to meet Octavia’s, but she's already smiling — a softer smile, gentler, kinder. “I can’t _believe_ it’s taken you this long, big brother.”

 

He leans back in his seat, one hand reaching up to rake slowly through the dark curls atop his head. “Fuck.”

 

“Yeah. Fuck,” his sister readily agrees, picking up her knife and fork to resume work on her pancakes. “Look, whatever the hell happens, I suggest you at least _try_ to fix it before Saturday. Gonna spark some major questions if I’ve to specifically tell Jasper and Monty not to pick a romance flick to save us all from the awkward sexual tension or some shit.” Grinning around a bite of pancake, she shakes her head at her brother, still trapped in temporary stunned silence. “Fucking muesli.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It _definitely_ feels weird, knocking on the familiar salt white wood of Clarke’s door. He fidgets restlessly for a couple seconds, wondering if he should’ve just used the key sitting in his back pocket. _Fuck. You’ve probably made it even more awkward now. Goddamn it._

 

The door flies open, interrupting the swim his brain had been taking in a pool of anxiety.

 

“Hey,” Clarke says, and he’s pretty sure his ears are physically twitching with the strain of trying to pick up any differences in her voice. She’s already turned her back on him, padding back into her apartment. “Great timing, just got in myself. Want a beer?”

 

He follows her automatically, being extra conscious to avoid dragging his feet. “Nah, gotta cover the bar tonight. Atom has college shit to deal with.”

 

She shrugs, pouring herself a glass of water. “Again? God, how much effort does it take to graduate.”

 

He lets out a laugh at that, and immediately curses himself for how fucking _jittery_ it sounds. _For crying out loud._ He spots his watch lying on the expanse of her kitchen table and seizes it in breathless gratitude. “Ah, fuck. Thank God, O would’ve _killed_ me.”

 

She smiles around a gulp of water. “Yes, she would’ve. She showed us the receipt when she bought it. Hell, Raven was pretty ready to kill for it too.”

 

He relaxes despite himself, shaking his head with a smile as he makes sure to latch the watch onto his wrist securely. “Raven was ready to kill Miller for ragging on _Guardians of the Galaxy_ , so.”

 

The laughter that pours forth from both of them instantly reminds Bellamy of what it feels like when a window is suddenly opened in a stuffy room. Despite the immediate relief, he can’t dislodge the weight that’s wedged itself deep in his chest at the realisation of how discomfortingly much he’d missed her. When was the last time he’d gone more than a day or two without talking to her?

 

He clears his throat abruptly, ignoring the slight tingle running through his increasingly clammy hand as he rakes it through his dark curls. “Anyway, thanks for, you know—” _don’t fucking **say it**_ “—keeping it safe for me.” _Fucking **hell**. _ He ruefully appreciates the irony of a future professor losing all vestiges of rational control over basic speech functions.

 

She raises a brow at him, the arm holding the water glass propped over the one folded across her middle. “Well, you do know you could’ve gotten it anytime you want. Keys are kind of amazing that way — even work 24/7 and everything.”

 

He doesn’t laugh, one hand tucking into his jean pocket while the other moves up to rub at the back of his neck. “Actually, I waited because I wanted to talk to you.”

 

Her brows furrow together slightly, and she twists slightly to set the glass down on the counter she’s been leaning back against. “Talk to me about what?”

 

He freezes up at that, wondering for one crazy moment if he’d imagined the whole goddamn thing, if he’d wasted hours, _days_ fretting over something that had happened only in his head. He stares at her for a couple seconds, taking in the slight upward curve of her lips. Her piercing blue eyes are fixed on his, but they’re wide with expectancy, not confusion. She’s giving him an out, he realises.

 

 _This is it. Man up and **say it** , Blake. _ 

 

He tries to steady himself, but it appears that subtlety and deep breaths are impossible to reconcile.

 

“I’m sorry I kissed you.” _Fuck, it’s out._ He’s rambling on before he can register his own relief. “I swear to God I wasn’t trying anything, I honestly had no idea I even did it and it was a total accident and _I’m so sorry._ ”

 

He allows himself an overwhelmingly cathartic exhalation, savouring the physical feeling of the air whooshing out of his body before his mouth and nose are drawing in a fresh pull of oxygen. He finally lets himself look at her properly.

 

She’s looking right back at him, with an expression that’s almost contemplative in its calmness. He briefly considers the possibility that she may not have heard him properly, and has a momentary flash of panic at the accompanying possibility of having to repeat himself.

 

“Well, I’m not.”

 

His entire body stills, every inch of him wholly and completely focused on the blonde leaning against the counter mere feet from him. “Not… what?”

 

She shrugs, one side of her slightly curved mouth pulling even higher. “Not sorry.”

 

He’s not exactly sure who starts towards whom, but it’s him pressing her into the edge of the kitchen table with earnest lips and hands and hips, before sliding down over her ass to grip the backs of her thighs and lift, setting her firmly atop the flat surface and wedging himself between her welcoming thighs so two sets of urgent hands can wander freely without worrying about holding their bodies against each other. He can’t help the groan that escapes him when her fingers find their way under the hem of his shirt to trail across the overheated skin just above the waistline of his jeans. His forehead falls to her shoulder as his eyes fall shut, and he wills himself not to be overwhelmed by the reactions she elicits from him with every little touch.

 

He doesn’t allow himself much of a pause, lips quickly moving to the exposed skin of her neck, mouthing his way down to her collarbone as his hands blindly skim around to start work on the buttons of her shirt. He manages two of them — _how_ , he sure as hell has no idea; it’s all he can do to stay on his feet throughout the sensory overload of her hands tracing lines of fire across the flushed skin of his back, her legs locking around his hips to pull him in closer _right there_ and her fucking _moans_ — before her hands are suddenly on his chest, pushing gently and firmly, cloudy blue eyes blinking rapidly as he stumbles half a step backwards.

 

“Wait,” she breathes, and it’s an unnecessary request save for the function of giving them an extra second to catch their breaths. “Aren’t you—don’t you have to be at work soon?”

 

He exhales, bracing his hands on her thighs as he tries to get himself under some semblance of control. “Fuck. Yeah. Work.”

 

She grins impishly at him, and something throbs delightedly in his chest at the sight of her blonde waves in unmistakable disarray, a tousled golden frame around her face. “Now who’s not awake enough for full sentences.”

 

He doesn’t think diving in for another enthusiastic kiss quite appropriates the teasing punishment he meant to inflict, but he does it anyway, hands tangling into the blonde roots at the nape of her neck. He feels her lips curving up from where they’re pressed against his, and he realises his own have been turned up in an insuppressible smile for a few moments now.

 

 

 

It takes him three separate attempts to get out the door, beginning with finally letting her down from her perch on the table and ending with holding the door open with one hand and anchoring her tightly to him with the other, reluctant to end their fourth “goodbye kiss”. She finally dissolves into laughter against his eager lips, and his heart soars when he realises she didn’t make a move to push him away this time.

 

“ _Bell_ , come _on_ ,” she laughs as he nuzzles into her neck, not even trying to put any serious weight in the tone of exasperation. “You’re already _late_.”

 

He pulls away, releasing her unwillingly. “I’m going, I’m going.” He steps over the threshold and turns on the spot to look at her again, enjoying the sight of her bathed in the yellow light streaming in from the hallway, all dishevelled hair and clothes, the soft smile somehow casting a glow across her lovely face. He can’t help bringing one hand up to the side of her face, leaning in closer as she leans into his touch. “See you tonight, princess?”

 

She nods into his palm, blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. “You’ve got a key.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next day, Jasper loudly calls dibs on godparent rights to their first child. Octavia smacks him on the back of the head, scoffing at him to “take a number, dork”.

 

Between Bellamy and Clarke’s mild horror and the Octavia-Jasper commotion, not much attention is paid to Raven, Miller and Monty as they turn to exchange dramatic groans, rolled eyes and cash bills with a grinning Lincoln and Murphy.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> holler if you love domestic!bellarke 
> 
> but more importantly, come hug me if you love domestic-but-totally-unaware-and-"huh-this-is-normal-ain't-it" bellarke amen


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